I had been in the water for 12 hours when I looked up and saw ‘The Cap’, the jutting piece of French soil about 1km distant, my planned destination.

I was feeling great. It was late afternoon, the sun was still hovering above the horizon and my inner voice was saying that, yes, this was it. It was finally going to happen; I was going to cross the English Channel.

I just needed to keep swimming, keep the arms rolling over.

It took a further 30 minutes for my dream to shatter.